


I Hear You

by duvent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duvent/pseuds/duvent





	I Hear You

Tangled grocery bags dig into his palms as he walks up a flight of stairs to the second story apartment. When he makes it to the top, he leans against the railing, denying to himself that he should’ve brought his cane. His body is still sprightly for someone in his seventies, his mind just as stubborn as ever.

“Ridiculous.” Shifting the weight of the bags to his right arm, he digs the key out of his left pocket and unlocks the door.

“I’m home.” He slips his shoes off and carries the groceries to the kitchen.

“Can you hear me?” He runs a hand over his head, long resigned to the thinness of his hair, and the loss of its once standout colour. No answer comes. “Well, it’s still early.” This morning, he decided to walk to the family-run store twenty minutes away since it always opened before the big grocery chains.

The same place Midorima and Kise bought when they officially moved in together in their mid-twenties, their home is a space they initially thought too large for them. As the years went by they accumulated more and more stuff, leaving no choice but for the real estate agent to market it as “cozy.”

He starts unloading the food, placing some in the fridge, and setting aside the rest for the cupboards. He mixes up the kitchen cabinets for grains and spices for the ones holding soup bowls and other small dishes and has to open and reopen the little handles multiple times. Little notes stuck to the fridge and taped on containers are a reminder of how terrible they first were at cooking. In faded pen ink, “Not good for curry” is written on one tiny jar, while “Do not underestimate oregano” is written on another.

Next, he walks over to an upright piano situated against a wall parallel to the street-facing window and sits at its bench. Opened curtains welcome the morning light. He pushes a few keys, outlining a melody, but stops before the sounds envelop him, before he wakes the neighbours. “Can you hear that?” His fingers, without warning, begin to shake.

Knowing it would come, the pain in his chest is nonetheless just as merciless, like chords that explode with the force of pedal. He takes off his glasses and holds them to his chest.

“Would you laugh, Midorimacchi, knowing my eyes are failing me?” The question lingers in the air, and Kise uses his sleeve to wipe the lenses clean.

Resting the glasses in his lap, he closes his eyes briefly and imagines Midorima here, sitting on the bench beside him. Last year, Midorima had taught him the simplest of duets, one that just required Kise to play his right hand. Kise would get in the habit of using his index finger to poke at the keys, enjoying how every time Midorima would stop and use his own hand to guide Kise’s. Ever since, when sitting, Kise would place his left hand over his right, calming himself with the wrist’s weight.

His friends check up on him every so often, their concern manifesting in endless questions - how is he holding up? Does he need them to prepare him some meals for a few days? Does he want to move in with one of them? For Kise, such questions go in one ear and out the other, and prompt him to ask of himself instead: Can he hear me talking to myself every day? It’s the silence marked by the absence of Midorima’s voice and music on a stuffy day that hurts the most, and the absence of footsteps that pad softly across the floor that causes him distress.

Written on a notepad on one of the piano’s key blocks are the numbers of young university students who have made an offer on the apartment. Kise has been putting off contacting them; he wants some more time in this space. It’s full of moments that hold him here, that cling to the space like how the dust clings to the furniture. He refuses to let pieces of his life, of the life they lived together be reduced to slowly disappearing memories.

Many petty arguments that ended with bear hugs happened here. In this kitchen and living room, stories of their days were recounted over countless attempts at home-cooked dinners. And in the bedroom, their legs had dangled over the bed frame as they playfully kicked each other back and forth time and time again.

A wrinkled smile struggles to reach Kise’s eyes. I sound like I’m waiting to die, he thinks. Remembering all that stuff now.

Using the other key block to support himself, he stands up. Although each step he takes around the apartment gets heavier, for just a little longer, he will stay. 

* * *

 “You can die first.” Midorima states this without looking up from his dinner.

“What?!” Kise, on the other hand, pauses, and the food slips from his chopsticks, dropping back into his bowl.

“You’re irresponsible. You’d need someone to take care of you when you’re old.”

Quick to defend himself, Kise retorts, “Stupid. I’ll be the one taking care of you, I can already see it happening.”

Their conversation is ever so bright. It’s like months haven’t passed between them, like this day that has brought them together is the same day that took them apart. Their job schedules seemed to constantly be working against them when they first reached adulthood and the unfairness of it all was the subject of many of Kise’s complaints and Midorima’s frustrations as they laboured to set aside time to see each other on their holidays. Now in their mid-twenties, they’ve been blessed with some stability in the form of being based in the same city.

“Be right back,” Midorima says, heading to the kitchen.

“Hey, this is pretty good,” Kise remarks, taking large gulps of the dinner. "How’d you do it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I bought it.”

“Aha, so you cheated. I thought we were both going to make an effort to improve at cooking.”

Avoiding that topic, Midorima pokes his head in the fridge. "Hm, but I suppose it would be better if neither of us died before the other."

“You’re only realizing that now?” Kise laughs. “Anyways, Midorima...” Sounds weird, Kise thinks. “Shintarou? Mi-kun?” He scrunches his nose. Weirder and weirder, and not quite right.   

“What is it?!”

Kise grins. “I guess it won’t change.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Nothing, Midorimacchi,” he replies, now humming to himself.

Having thoroughly scanned the contents of his fridge twice over, Midorima frowns. “I thought I had dessert.”

“...I ate it earlier.”

“Kise.” Midorima tries to say his boyfriend’s name with reproach, but his sigh is soft and without anger. “You’ve been here a day and you’re already making yourself at home...”

"Thanks for having me."

“Say that first! And ask before taking things that aren’t yours.”

“Hey, Midorimacchi?”

“Yes?”

“Can I continue to stay over?” Kise clasps his hands together and bites his lip to prevent it from breaking into a huge smile which he knows will only aggravate Midorima.

Midorima sighs again, pushing his glasses up. He’s mumbling, and Kise catches the words “schedule,” “ruined,” and “brat.”

“Oh, I get it. You have work and things to do, places to see -...” Kise’s words spill out, the half-hidden smile already fading from his face.  

“- I don’t mind. If it’s just for a little longer...”

“- I mean, it’s normal for you to be really busy at this time of year -”

“- I said it’s okay already -”

The babbling doesn’t seem like it’ll stop anytime soon. Midorima runs a hand through his hair, and chuckles before asking --

“Kise, can you hear me?”


End file.
